


The Tale of the Twisted Tomato

by Liadt



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Jago & Litefoot (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, warning for no kissing at the end shocking i know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 06:23:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1418282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liadt/pseuds/Liadt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the day before Jago's birthday and he fears history is repeating itself, still there are always villains to be vanquished in the meantime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tale of the Twisted Tomato

**Author's Note:**

> Beta-ed by the awesome Lost_spook.

The sounds of a badly played piano and chattering voices filled the smoky, dimly lit interior of the Red Tavern. Amidst the bawdy revelry sat Henry Gordon Jago, supping his pint of pale ale alone. He had expected to meet his friend Professor George Litefoot there, but he had not turned up. 

One day short of a year ago, Litefoot had missed Jago’s birthday, because he had become oblivious to all outside events while preparing a paper, to be presented to his peers. Litefoot had been terribly contrite over the whole thing and promised to make it up to Jago the following year. However, the Professor was frightfully busy with a cholera epidemic and Jago thought history was repeating itself, until he received a note from a messenger boy earlier in the day. Pre-birthday drinks were better than none and it wouldn’t be the first time in his life his birthday celebrations had lasted longer than a day.

As Jago brooded over his collection of empty glasses, and his thoughts moved in the direction of considering alcohol his only friend, he felt a tap on his shoulder. Glancing up he saw Litefoot, standing there, looking solemn.

“Professor!” exclaimed Jago. “I thought you weren’t coming. I deduce, from the expression on your face, you were delayed by a matter of extreme seriousness.”

Litefoot eased himself into to a chair, around Jago’s table. “You are quite correct, Henry. In fact, I hesitate to say what kind of fiend is bringing murder and mayhem, yet again, to our corner of London.”

“My ears are yours to fill with your sage speech as always, my good friend.”

“’Ello, Professor, what are you drinking?” said Ellie, the barmaid, who had come to take Litefoot’s order.

“Good evening, Miss Higson. You’re dashed prompt tonight,” said Litefoot.

“Well, Professor, as Mr Jago’s tab is non-existent, least as far as the landlord’s concerned, I thought I’d start by settling Mr Jago’s bill with you, before moving to yours.”

Jago’s cheeks would have coloured there and then if they weren’t red already. Due to the unreliable nature of public fancy, some weeks’ takings at the theatre were better than others. This was one of the slow weeks where the bill at the New Regency Theatre hadn’t proved inviting enough to pique the public interest. Jago wished to set the record straight. “I am taking libation at this esteemed hostelry because I am automatically assured of a profitable season when Madam Mirabelle’s Magical Mandrakes start their run, in due course.”

Ellie had heard this before. “Ah, but how long is due course? That’s what the governor wants to know, ‘cos he thinks it’s too long.” 

“Never mind,” interjected Litefoot, who had more important things to discuss than Jago’s tab. “I’ll settle the bill and Henry will pay me back later, won’t you?”

“Of course. Henry Gordon Jago’s word is his bond.”

“Very well, gents. The usual then?”

“Yes, thank you,” said Litefoot.

Making sure there was no one in earshot, Litefoot leaned in close to Jago. This was partly because he didn’t want anyone else to overhear and partly because he wasn’t sure Jago would be able to hear over the din of the pub. “I was about to take my leave, from the mortuary today, when I was coming to the end of dealing with the corpse, of a poor unfortunate, when I espied in his throat a tomato still attached to its vine.”

“Could it have been the remains of the blighted body’s last repast?”

“I would have concurred with you a week ago, my dear chap, if it wasn’t the fifth body that had arrived with said salad fruit lodged in the oesophagus, in as many days. It was no common tomato either, with a purple cast to its flesh.”

Ellie, bringing their drinks over, had caught some of their conversation. “Purple tomatoes? My mate, Rose, lives next to a market garden. They grew a batch of purple tomatoes and tried to pass them off as fancy ones, but nobody would touch them. I could take you there tomorrow, before I start work.”

“Thank you, Miss Higson. Would it be possible for you to meet us outside the police morgue? The tomatoes’ vines are twisted into knots. I’ve observed all sorts of knots and hitches at Mr Jago’s theatre and I intend to use his knowledge to help me with my investigations - if that’s not too much of an imposition on your time, Henry?”

Jago took a large gulp of his pale ale. “Jago and Litefoot: investigators of infernal incidents  
are open for business again,” he said happily.

“Litefoot and Jago,” said Litefoot automatically, with a fond smile at his inebriated friend.

****

While he walked to the mortuary, Jago pondered last night’s conversation, in the Red Tavern. It had seemed perfectly plausible after a few, but in the cold light of day, it appeared more than a little contrived. Today was his birthday - could the Professor have arranged a surprise party? The rooms where Litefoot spent his days slicing up cadavers were a macabre choice of venue. He supposed having Ellie meet them at the infinitely more suitable tavern would have been too obvious a plan for an intelligent man, such as George Litefoot.

“Good day, Sergeant Quick,” said Jago, as he reached the morgue’s entrance.

“Good day to you too, Mr Jago. I’ll take you up to the Professor, shall I?”

“No need, my good man. I daresay I know my way better than yourself.” Jago quickened his step, in the hope of spotting partygoers trying to conceal themselves.

Jago stepped into the main room and saw… the Professor and a couple of bodies laid out. Very dead bodies, who would not be having any more revels, not on this plane at least.

“Ah, Henry, just the chap!” said Litefoot, who was dressed for work with a white apron, with rusty marks that refused to be washed out, over his clothes.

“Hullo, Professor,” responded Jago, dully. Had he been mistaken, had Litefoot become caught up in his studies again?

“Come over here and see what you think.”

Jago did as he was bid and inspected the matter extracted from the departed’s throats. Each one of them consisted of a small, purplish tomato with a single, long tendril attached. The vine was coiled around a small twig in a very specific way.

“I observe what you were alluding to yesterday, Professor. These entwined twirls are the self same knots used by fly men, to tie off ropes, at the theatre. Although, they could just have easily been tied by a nautical ne’er-do-well as a theatrical fiend.” When he finished inspecting the tomatoes, he looked at the victims’ wounds. “It’s dashed queer the beastly blighter should go to all the trouble of making sure the knots are all the same, yet has dispatched these poor souls in a different manner each time.”

One of the corpses had a nasty head wound, the other the marks left by a garrotte around the throat and one had no visible signs of violence.

“I deduce the villain was more concerned with leaving his unique calling card, rather than sticking to one method of murder,” said Litefoot, quickly.

“Hmm,” mused Jago, “I thought you said there were five bodies.” He moved off to look for the missing cadavers in other rooms. The surprise birthday party theory moved back into his mind. “It’s an awfully echo-y, empty place,” said Jago, sadly, over his shoulder, as Litefoot and Quick followed him. Jago found only silent corpses and alcohol of the preservative kind. “I think I’ll go out and wait for Ellie.” Jago was too low in spirits to alliterate.

****

“’Ere it is,” said Ellie, pointing at a wide set of double gates. Accompanying her were Jago, Litefoot and Quick. Inside the gates was a long greenhouse, it was laid out in the shape of a cross, with the longest end directly in front of them and two of the other lengths of the cross stretching out to the right and left, from the middle.

“Right, I’ll take the right end. Quick, you search the left, and Jago and Ellie can go through the glasshouse in front of us,” said Litefoot, taking charge of the investigation. “I hope if we can’t find anyone to question, we will find some evidence of nefarious activities.”

“Are you sure you’ll be all right alone, Professor? I don’t hold with splitting up,” said Jago, nervously.

“Of course - I have my cane, Quick has his truncheon, and Ellie has you to protect her,” said Litefoot, briskly.

“Don’t forget to holler and we’ll be there in a flash if you should meet the black-hearted blaggard,” said Jago.

“Don’t forget to do the same, should you find yourself in peril and I shall come to your aid, Henry,” vowed Litefoot.

****

Inside the huge greenhouse, Ellie went on ahead and Jago searched the ground looking for anything suspicious, like a piece of garden wire, which could be used as a garrotte. “I say, Ellie, this is more a needle in a veritable vegstack than a haystack, eh? Ellie, Ellie, where have you gone?” called Jago, who when he drew his attention from the floor, found Ellie was nowhere to be seen.

Litefoot wandered out into the middle of the glasshouse, where the four sections of the building met. “What is it, Henry?”

Jago hurried up to Litefoot, in need of some reassurance. “It’s Ellie: she’s disappeared.”

From behind a tall section of shelving, packed with row upon row of plant pots, came out an imposing, hooded figure. On top of his hood, he wore a large brimmed, cavalier hat. The feathers dropping down from the brim further obscured his features. He held a frightened Ellie, with a hand clamped across her mouth. In his other hand, he held a wickedly curved scimitar. 

“Is this what you are looking for, gentlemen?” boomed out the hooded figure.

“Unhand her, you foul fiend!” shouted Jago.

The big man laughed. A laugh that would have sounded like a ridiculous parody of a maniac’s laugh if it weren’t for the fact he held Ellie’s life in his hands. “I have your attention at last, Henry Gordon Jago. Don’t move any further forward if you value the girl’s life.”

“Have we met before?” queried a quivering, Jago.

“Met? Met! I am Erasmus Marrow!” boomed the giant again.

“Do you recognise the name? It is singularly unusual,” whispered Litefoot, into Jago’s ear.

Jago gave a small shrug in reply to Litefoot. “Please forgive me; I have a terrible memory for names,” he said to Erasmus.

“Soon my name will be known all across the whole of London. Fame and recognition will be mine at last. All you theatrical impresarios will regret ever turning my act down, when audiences learn of what marvels have been denied them. No more will I waste my talents on the family business of growing vegetables.”

“Actually a tomato is a fruit,” said Litefoot, under his breath, before speaking up in a louder tone. “There’s no need to go to so much trouble to get a slot at the New Regency is there, Henry?”

“Indeed not. Let Ellie go and we can discuss contracts,” said Jago, wishing Quick would turn up and bash the mysterious man over the head with his truncheon.

“What? After all the time and effort I’ve taken to get you here. I’d seen the barmaid, from your local, visiting across the road and I’ve heard about your friendship with the pathologist and exploited it to draw you here. However, it is time to close the first act and the second will open at the New Regency Theatre. Will the plucky barmaid die or will her friends rescue her? Join me after ordering your drinks at the bar.” Then, with a sharp laugh, the figure dragged Ellie off and disappeared out of a side door.

The two friends ran out after them, in hot pursuit, but they were too late. The grounds of the market garden were deserted, in the far corner a small gate banged open and shut.

“He must be Spring-heeled Jack himself to have disappeared so dashed fast,” said Jago, mopping his brow.

As they scanned the area, Sergeant Quick came pelting out of the glasshouse. “I’ve not missed anything have I? I heard shouting,” wheezed Quick, pausing to bend over and place his hands on his thighs and get his breath back.

“Only a confounded, cloaked, criminal cove desperately dragging off poor Ellie to face heaven or hell knows what fearful fate,” said Jago.

“Did you catch sight of the devil from your side of the building?” asked Litefoot.

“I’m sorry to say, I didn’t,” answered Quick.

“I see it leaves us with no choice but to go to the Regency,” said Litefoot, gravely.

Jago clutched at Litefoot’s arm, in alarm. “Oh cripes, oh lummy, corks!” 

****

Spilling out of the cramped confines of a hansom cab and hurrying to the stage door, of the New Regency Theatre, Jago, Litefoot, and Quick found it swinging ominously open. As they arrived backstage, a stagehand came over to them. He was carrying the broom he used to sweep the stage and was clearly agitated. “Praise be, Mr Jago, how did you know we needed a bobby? A cloaked fellow, of no merit whatsoever, came rushing in, waving a sword and dragging along a screaming gel.”

“Where did the fiend go? I can’t see anyone on the stage,” said Litefoot, puzzled.

“Ah, no, sir, he pushed on past in the direction of the bar.”

“It’s queer he’s not on the stage,” observed Quick.

“Dangerous places stages. I could’ve dropped a bar from the fly tower on to his head or crept up behind him and hooked him with a stage brace or…”

“We’ve no time to listen to the long litany of the malodious misuses of theatrical equipment, we’ve a poor, innocent ingénue to save from the clutches of a devious, dark-hearted devil,” said Jago, impatiently side-stepping around ground rows, cut into the shape of bushes and fences, before exiting stage left.

****

Jago was waiting at the foot of the stairs to the bar for the others to catch up. 

“Never fear, Jago and Litefoot will rescue you, Ellie,” shouted Jago, up the stairwell, in response to her screams. In a worried voice he spoke to Litefoot, “You’ve still got your stout, smiting stick haven’t you, Professor? It’s just my nerves have caught up with me.”

“Don’t worry, I’m right behind you,” Litefoot, assured him. 

Bursting into the bar, Jago found it plunged into darkness, before the gas lamps flared into life, illuminating Ellie and not a foul fiend, but several dancing girls, a troupe of turns, titled Ladies who used to be plain misses on the stage, stagehands who had unfolded their arms and left their thousand yard stares in the prompt corner, fellow patrons of the Red Tavern, respected pathologists and policemen and other acquaintances of Henry Gordon Jago of indeterminate employment. 

“Surprise!” shouted the crowd in unison and let the corks off several bottles of champagne.

Litefoot clapped Jago on the back. “Happy birthday, old chap. You didn’t think I’d forget again, did you?”

“But, but, Ellie and what happened to Erasmus Marrow?” stuttered a stunned Jago. With all the excitement, of the day’s events, he had quite forgotten it was his birthday.

“Erasmus Marrow was me, Mr Jago,” said Quick, beaming. “I nearly did myself an injury rushing around that glass building.”

“Your patter would make the beginnings of a splendidly, dreadful penny dreadful, you know. I’d stay off the stage until you learn the difference between shouting and projecting your voice though. But what of the victims of the vine?” said Jago.

“Ah, they were merely random cadavers the mortuary attendant pulled out of the storage room for me,” replied Litefoot.

“The botanical bends were beautifully bound. Did you avail yourself of the expertise of a passing stagehand?”

“I tied the knots myself, from memory.”

“I must say, I am dazzled both by the dexterity of your digits and the recollective recesses of your mind.” 

“Never mind all that, Henry, we’ve birthday celebrations to tackle first,” said Litefoot, pushing a flute of champagne into Jago’s hand. Raising his own glass into the air, he said, “Three cheers for Mr Jago. Hip, hip!”

“Hooray!” finished the crowd for him.

****

Long after the toasting had finished, into the wee small hours, Jago and Litefoot were standing next to a pillar in the bar, sharing a quiet moment alone.

“George, words fail me to convey how truly touched I am at the terrible trouble you’ve gone to perfectly plan this superbly, splendid soirée.”

“Think nothing of it, my dear chap. Here’s to you, once again,” said Litefoot and lifted his glass to meet Jago’s.

“Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

“And to unbreakable friendship forever,” said Jago.

“Indeed. I’ll drink to that, if you‘ve any Assam,” said Litefoot, with a smile.

****


End file.
